


Plush

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros is frisky and Maglor is fond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plush

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for vanillacinnamonstuff’s “Maedhros/Maglor...uh, canoodling in a garden? Like, just cuddling after a picnic” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They share their food in one of Tirion’s outdoor gardens, more than they should, popping stray fruits into one another’s mouths and trying to resist licking wet fingers clean. This courtyard is a lesser-used one, circular and brimmed with tall bushes of flowers, save for the opening for paving stones to carry through, but there are certain precautions that still must be observed. Makalaurë is careful with his wine and makes sure Maitimo is the same, though they still down one sparkling glass each. When Maitimo reaches to poor another round, Makalaurë gently stills his hand. 

They sit close together, perhaps too close. A blanket’s spread beneath them, crisp and white, with a wicker basket open and half eaten-through already: a delicious breakfast set in excellent company. Makalaurë’s folded legs rest against Maitimo’s, his blue robes in sharp contrast to Maitimo’s fire-red ones. Both sets are loose and light to match the warm air, the day still bright all around them. 

Makalaurë is the one to finish the last sandwich, and he’s barely swallowed his last bite when long fingers wrap beneath his chin. He’s turned to his right, where Maitimo bends down to lick the crumbs from the corner of his mouth. Makalaurë’s lips part of sheer instinct, but he closes them again, murmuring under his brother’s caress, “Not here.”

Maitimo dons the same sad smile that Makalaurë wears. But he’s more fearless, and he replies smoothly, “We are in our own territory, and there is no one in this place that will not understand.” Makalaurë raises his brows at the implication, and Maedhros chuckles before boldly continuing, “Indeed, surely no Noldor at all would begrudge me this desire for such an enchanting creature.” 

Makalaurë grins wide with the compliment but finds playful laughter in the bottom of his throat. Maitimo’s become as clever-tongued as Atarinkë, though less cunning. It still bids Makalaurë closer, and he shifts to rest his head on Maitimo’s broad shoulder; all of Maitimo is sturdy, strong. The weight doesn’t indent him in the slightest. He lifts one hand to brush through Makalaurë’s dark waves, and Makalaurë sighs, “You are too good to me.”

The fingers in his hair drop to encircle his hand. Maitimo brings it up to kiss the back, muttering against Makalaurë’s skin, “I am the eldest. It is my duty to look after my darling brothers.”

“All your brothers?” Makalaurë teases. He’s rewarded for his prod with a kiss to his forehead and no answer. Instead, his hand is released, and Maitimo drops to trace Makalaurë’s calf, dallying up along the silken hem of his skirts. 

Maitimo should stop there, but he’s as strong-willed as strong-bodied and always fights for what he wants. His fingertips trace tantalizingly beneath Makalaurë’s robes, until Makalaurë’s breath hitches, and Maitimo is kind enough to spare him. The hand reemerges, but only to make its way around Makalaurë’s knee and up along Makalaurë’s thigh, smoothing the fabric out as it presses firmly down. 

Makalaurë’s eyes flutter, and he murmurs, “ _Nelyo_...” Maitimo traces idle patters up and down his thighs, caressing the supple curve through his clothes, and it makes him heady for it. 

Then Maitimo dares to drag his palm between Makalaurë’s legs, cupping him tight, and Makalaurë gasps loud. Maitimo turns to nuzzle his face into the side of Makalaurë’s, and he drags his tongue lewdly along the slender shell of Makalaurë’s ear, pausing to purr, “Only you, my darling.”

Makalaurë arches up, his body rising to meet his brother’s hand, and Maitimo kneads him softly for it. It’s difficult to resist, even with the knowledge that this is highly inappropriate for the gardens and so soon after a meal, but Maitimo is always his favourite desert. He rocks himself into the steady rhythm of Maitimo’s squeezes, and Maitimo hisses, commanding, “ _Sing for me._ ”

Makalaurë whimpers, torn, but nonetheless obeys, whines for his brother and moans, “I had offered to bring my harp...” It earns him a tighter squeeze and Maitimo’s fingers digging so far into the fabric that they stroke over Makalaurë’s eager hole. His body turns more and more into Maitimo’s lap, his hands lifting to cling to Maitimo’s shoulder and weave into his copper hair. Makalaurë’s quickly becoming _overwhelmed_.”

“I could not allow that,” Maitimo sighs, like it’s a pity but a truth. “To see you in the midst of your music would break me utterly, and I would not be able to constrain myself to the use of one hand, but be forced to throw you down into the grass and fuck you hard into the earth...”

Makalaurë, enraptured, rides one last spasm of pure pleasure, then somehow moans, “ _Stop_.” Maitimo stills instantly, and it’s torture—Makalaurë trembles, taking several moments to adjust, all whilst battling with himself to beg for it again. 

Finally, he gathers himself enough to order, “Behave.” Maitimo sighs with remorse but does so. Makalaurë turns to drape his legs properly over Maitimo’s lap, hiding his tented robes, but he elaborates, “I also wish to enjoy this time here, and you would have us rushing off to bed.”

Maitimo seems to understand then, and he dips his head in acquiescence. He says, “My apologies, my songbird,” and kisses Makalaurë’s forehead. 

Sighing, Makalaurë rests his head again on Maitimo’s shoulder, trying to hold out as long as he can, and wondrously content in the meantime.


End file.
